


the bitches on saints row.

by eoghainy



Category: Saints Row
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2019-08-24 16:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16644101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eoghainy/pseuds/eoghainy
Summary: drabbles taken & updated from original ficlet.





	1. even if the sky does fall.

**Author's Note:**

> drabbles taken & updated from original ficlet.

The man who had been a kid wasn’t quite a kid anymore.

No, this was a man weighed down by his own faults and his regrets. Johnny wasn’t sure he had ever seen the Boss so downtrodden before, so desperate to rid himself of his sorrow (though, he hadn’t been there for the ten-year period in which Léon had utterly lost himself.). Whenever he wasn’t in that damn simulation picking fights with anything that could code in a weapon, he was stowed away in his quarters on the ship, bottle always within arm’s reach and head held in his hands. 

Once, Johnny had seen the Boss digging his nails so deep into his temples that they had begun to bleed, but he’d never say that out loud. Léon hadn’t even known he was being watched, so he had to keep his lips _shut_ about that one.

There were only two occasions where Johnny had seen Léon like this. Once, back when the Saints were still themselves and had no obligations to live up to their public name; the kid had gotten so drunk that he ended up telling Johnny things. About his parents, his regrets over Aisha, his own mental disorders that were brimming and the fears he had. At the time, Johnny had hidden himself away behind those trademarked sunglasses, not knowing how to respond. He didn’t blame the kid for what happened to Aisha, and how he had gotten stabbed. That was his own fault. But he knew Léon carried it like an impossibly large boulder upon his shoulders. There had been no words to comfort him, only an offer for another drink. 

The second was the kid’s hell-simulation. Kinzie had told Johnny that he needed to see this, and horror had settled itself like a knot between his lungs. The poor boy had been forced to endure a simulation version of Johnny beating down upon him, both physically and verbally. Léon had given his puppy dog looks, had taken the blame upon himself, told Johnny that he could kill him and he wouldn’t care, but the simulation never stopped. It kept getting progressively worse until Kinzie had finally broken through. (Johnny was painfully aware that if she hadn’t, the simulation would have killed Léon over and over again.) 

In fact, the kid wasn’t a kid anymore. Johnny had had the pleasure of looking back at photos, and holy shit, the toothpick of a child had passed him in size. At sixteen, he had joined the Saints as a ‘protégée’ (Johnny had been incredibly doubtful and cynical, seeing how this kid was fucking _sixteen_.), and through trial and error, had managed to worm his way into Johnny’s life as a friend. 

One of the photos was from that time. Johnny’s glasses had been askew on his face, and his arm slung around Léon’s shoulders. Though Johnny had been glowering at the camera, Léon had been grinning like the happiest motherfucker alive. Only days later did the kid end up in a coma, and Johnny was being shipped off to prison. 

The second was of Aisha, Johnny and Léon. The asshole had been taking a candid (with his torso still wrapped in gauze from the explosion.), face half in the picture as he caught Johnny and Aisha mid-kiss in the background. The only differences between the first two photos were that Léon now had a scar on his face, and Johnny looked even more callous than before thanks to his prison time and brush with death. 

The third was simple, but it almost invoked tears from the usually stoic Johnny. It had been the entire Saints crew, Johnny, Léon, Shaundi, Pierce, and a few others that were now long gone. Shaundi had been sitting on Léon's lap, her belly shirt showing her clear, unmarked skin. Her hands had been up, dreadlocks hanging down to her hips. Léon had been leaning back in his seat, his lips pressed into a fine line and one of his eyes black. Johnny could see that the beginnings of a third tattoo had been growing on his upper arm. Pierce had one of his dumb hats on as he was leaning over someone long dead on the pool table, his eyes bright with interest as he read something on the laptop in their lap. Johnny himself was tucked into the corner, arms folded over his chest and expression sullen. His picture-self seemed angry, and Johnny could only presume that he had still been reeling from Aisha. 

But the Boss in these pictures and the Boss that was before Johnny now were not the same person. Once so skimpy, he was now broad and filled out, underneath his skin were hard muscles that almost manage to intimdate Johnny. Across his left shoulder and dipping down into the middle of the right side of his back was a burn scar, a permanent reminder of what he had survived. He had Saints tattoos on the left side of his body (running from his left hip down to his left thigh), his right upper shoulder, and left calf. These days, every single time he pulled himself from that simulation, he had new bruises and cuts. 

“He can't get deathly hurt in there!” Kinzie would cheerfully say, but Johnny had his fucking doubts. 

There were hard lines etched into Léon’s face now, and his hair was never carefully groomed as it had been in the past. He constantly reeked of alcohol and was as prickly as a fucking hedgehog, always losing his temper with someone. He didn’t smile, didn’t crack witty jokes, didn't even attempt to talk anymore. Johnny knew he was shutting down. He blamed himself for what happened to the Earth, and he would never _not_ think as such. He naturally assumed the blame for he _always_ thought things were his fault. 

One night, when Johnny had been carrying him to his quarters because the fucker had passed out drunk on the couch, he had caught the slip of his shirt. As soon as Léon had been put down on the bed, Johnny had investigated, finding something that made his heart split. 

Sprawled across Léon’s abdomen were the words: **JOHNNY GAT**. It was as if someone had haphazardly dug a blade into his skin and carved. Johnny didn't doubt for a second that the Boss had done this as a way to never forget his ‘failure’. The skin was still raw though the scars must be at least a decade old, and they were raised off his skin, almost as if Léon had left it to get infected and fester, just so that the scars would be there. 

He had gone to Shaundi then, fuming and wondering just _how_ she could have let the fucking kid do such a thing. Once questioned, she had given it up; confessing that they had both done it during a night of drinking. She even showed Johnny hers, but they were nothing like Léon’s. She had let the wounds heal and disappear, whereas Léon’s were still as stark and ugly as the night they had been created. 

This kid wasn’t the kid who had become his best friend. This was a tormented adult with his own demons, carrying the deaths of over seven billion people upon his shoulders. 

And Johnny didn't know how to fix him.  


	2. lánzame al sol.

_“Get me the fuck out of this thing!”_ A very distressed and a very stressed voice belonging to Léon filters through the HUB.  _“The doors are fucking locked; I can’t get through. Kinzie, Matt, what are you doing?”_ At first, it was surprising that there were no insults in Spanish being spat out. “ _¿Estás jodidamente loco? ¡Fuera, sácame!”_

There it was.

“Hold tight for a second,” Kinzie nervously replies, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she struggled with the simulation. “Zinyak took control, he’s shutting down every aspect of control we once had and he’s trying to cut you off from us! Try this next door.” 

A noise that sounded like Léon growling in annoyance came through, and then he was off again. Looking back at Léon’s body to make sure that his vitals were still good, Kinzie left the controls to Matt for a moment, eyes narrowing as she saw the drop. It was a slow one, hardly noticeable, but it was gradual enough to strike worry in her. Everything was beginning to go down, if he didn’t get pulled out soon, then he was going to die in there. 

“Did you get hurt?” Kinzie went back over to their side of the comm, sharing an uneasy look with Matt. 

Silence.  _“Posiblemente, no lo sé.”_ From her basic comprehension of Spanish, that meant yes. _“Creo que estoy sangrando.”_ When stressed, Léon seemed to forget that everyone here spoke English. Fucker. “ _Son ustedes_ – fuck, are you guys losing control of the sim?”

“That’s what it seems like.” Matt was furiously typing something. “Hold on, I’m going to try and create a new doorway and block any connection from Zinyak. Can you get to the west end of Steelport?” 

_“I can fucking try. My powers are starting to run low. I might not make it.”_

“Then I’ll try to get one closer to your location. Keep moving, don’t stay still!” Even Matt was beginning to sound stressed, and he usually had better control in these situations than Kinzie did. Things were going wrong, and  _fast_. How did Zinyak figure out that they were moving against him again so soon? It seemed as if he was finally done entertaining the idea of the Saints little rebellion, and was putting an end to it once and for all. Luckily, only Léon was in the simulation at the time, which meant that they only had to focus on getting him out. The only problem was that Zinyak’s connections were overriding theirs, and undoing the meticulous work that Kinzie and Matt had done over the long, hard months. It seemed he finally felt threatened by what the Saints could do, and was no longer willing to risk them getting any closer into destroying him.

 _“Hey, guys?”_ Léon had the grace to sound nervous.  _“Erm, remember how I said the Wardens were all wiped out? Yeah, well, that door you created now has three of them guarding it. ¿Qué hago, corro hacia ellos y los mato? ¿Darles un espectáculo de striptease?”_

“Don’t risk it, and _no_ , do not do that. Just run. We’ll have to figure something else out.” Kinzie slid up the comm again, finding that she was running low on ideas. “Keep yourself safe, Léon, don’t let that wound get any worse or else your actual body will die. You need to —” 

_“Yeah, yeah, I know; be careful. I’m gonna hi —”_

Léon’s words completely cut out. There was silence on the other end of the HUB, almost as if their connection had been cut by something none of them could have foreseen. Hesitating, Kinzie stared at the speaker, her mouth agape. 

“Léon?” She tried, her voice rasping.

There was no response. 

“Zinyak cut the HUB connection, and he’s cutting Léon’s powers, too. See this little meter?” Matt beckoned Kinzie closer, and showed her a small bar that was steadily beginning to go down. “How brilliant! He’s trying to isolate Léon, strip him of his powers, and then let whatever is in the simulation kill him.” The entire screen suddenly went black. Kinzie and Matt could see themselves in the reflection of the dark screen, both looking in surprise when Zinyak’s logo appeared and as the computers and ship alike began to revive themselves.

“Guys, get in here!” Kinzie yelled, not seeing Matt flinch from the loud tone of her voice.

“What’s going on?” Shaundi was the first to come in, Johnny following close behind. Keith, Ben, Asha and CID were coming through next, and last of all came Pierce. Somehow managing to squeeze them all around the screen, they all watched the screen in grim anticipation. The screen began to lighten and Zinyak’s face was outlined against the blackness, his gaze looking triumphant. 

 _“Well, well, well,”_  he drawled, his voice filling the room.  _“Looks like I win. Your friend is stuck in there with nothing to help him escape. Do you really have faith that he’ll survive?”_

“Always,” Johnny spat, shoving Kinzie aside and getting up close to the screen. “You obviously haven’t learned anything if you think that something like  _this_ can get the damned  _Boss_ down. The Saints always come through, Zinyak.” 

The alien overlord didn’t look surprised at Johnny’s outburst.  _“We’ll just have to see about that,”_  he murmured.  _“If Léon somehow does survive, I’ll admit, I would have underestimated you humans. If he doesn’t . . . your ship is mine. I’ve had enough of this, to be quite frank. Kinzie, I thought you would have been smarter than this; your redirections were surprisingly easy to override.”_

“I’ll just have to work harder to turn your simulation against you, then.” Kinzie glared, fighting to control her temper. “Good _bye_ , Zinyak.” Mashing the button a bit harder than she intended, the screen went black again, and Zinyak disappeared. 

“Send me in the simulation.” Johnny demanded immediately, heading for one of the placeholders. “If the Boss is in that much danger, I ain’t just standin’ by.” 

“Me too,” Shaundi fixed her hair as she walked closer to Johnny, her hips swinging.

“Well, if you two are going, then so am I!” Pierce declared, standing by Shaundi and Johnny. “Us three will take care of him, Kinzie.” 

“ _No_ ,” Kinzie bent over one of the computers. “Our connection to the simulation has been severed. The only one that’s still running properly is Léon’s because it’s in use, but look at it. His body is starting to die.” 

Shaundi, almost curiously, went over to where Léon was strapped down. His eyes were rolling rapidly behind his eyelids, and his chest was heaving. His face and his fingers would twitch, and there was blood leaking through his suit. A growing scarlet stain against the slate gray material, not large enough to warrant concern but enough to warrant someone to keep their eye on him to ensure that it doesn’t get larger. 

“His blood pressure is high, his heart rate is high, and his brain waves are incredible. They read nothing but panic. I don’t know how much blood he’s losing in that simulation, but it isn’t good. If anyone can survive this, it’s definitely Léon. We just have to work on something else to help him.” Shaundi, though seeming like a girl that could care less about technological marvels like these, sounded impressed.

“Like what?” Johnny growled. His hands were locked behind his back and he was pacing. 

“Something that matches a Warden in strength,” CID’s mechanical voice startled Kinzie. She had forgotten that he was in there. “Something that Matt or Kinzie can code in, and that will protect Léon while we get the simulation back under Saint control. This is one of the only options that I can see.” 

“You know,” Asha murmured, “that makes sense. If we get something like that to be on his side, and somehow block it from Zinyak’s control, it buys us  _and_ Léon time.” 

“They’re right. What a brilliant idea!” Matt was immediately bent over the keyboard, typing away. “I’ve got the perfect thing in mind. What was that creature again that was in Pierce’s nightmare?” 

“Paul, the Saints Flow giant?” Keith put in. Pierce shuddered.

“He would work.” Hope began to fill Kinzie again. “Matt, you work on getting Paul up and running; I’ll protect the coding and twist it so Zinyak can’t override it. Can you do that?” 

“You’re actually asking for my help?” Matt looked up from his keyboard, looking touched. He quickly shook himself out of it. “Of course I can! While I’m at it, I’m going to look for Léon and try to reestablish a connection to him so we can reconnect the HUB.” 

“Everyone else, go reinforce the ship and get weapons ready, I have a feeling we’re going to get a Zin attack sometime in the near future. Johnny, you stay, I’m going to need you to talk the Boss down if he’s in a panic. Let’s go people! This isn’t something we can afford to screw up on, it’s life or death here!”

* * *

One hand rested over the gaping hole in the side whilst the other braced himself against the window ledge, chest rising and falling rapidly. Blood was steadily pumping against his palm, and though he knew that the Wardens and the Zin could not track him by his blood, he found himself trying not to spill it on anything just in case. 

The HUB connection was gone. His powers were dying off, and he was alone in the fucking simulation with nothing to help him. None of his guns were accessible, and though he wished that Kinzie and Matt would perform some fucking miracle and get him out of here alive, he knew that it wasn’t going to happen as smoothly as that. 

Not willing to stay still for fear of the Zin showing up, Léon hauled himself off of the ledge and swung to the next, making a disturbing noise that sounded like a mixture of a gasp and a grunt. He had survived gun shots, explosions, merciless beat downs, drug overdoses, being stabbed and so many other things, why should a fucking hole in his side slow him the fuck down? He was the President of the United States for fucks sake; he could do anything! 

Gritting his teeth, Léon swung to another one, forcing himself to haul up onto the rooftop. His legs were trembling, and his vision was beginning to narrow to pinholes. He could do this; he could  _fucking do this_. 

“Don’t be a pussy now, Léon,” he muttered to himself, inhaling deeply. Without any more hesitation, he began running across the rooftop and threw himself off the side of the ledge, his heart stopping as he dangled in midair, and then crashed down heavily upon the opposite side. It forced a winded sound through his bleeding lips, and the remainder of his strength was spent on climbing over the ledge and flopping down on the opposite rooftop. A warm heat spread underneath him, making his dress shirt stick to his skin. He was slowly, but steadily, bleeding out. 

 _“¡Vamos, Léon, has tenido peores!”_ He growled at himself, pushing one hand underneath him in order to rise to a sitting position. It was at times like this where he really missed his rapid heal, his super jump and sprint, and overall the powers that the simulation had given him. What game was Zinyak fucking playing at? 

“Pussy, you fucking  _pussy_ , get off the fucking rooftop! Keep moving. If you want to survive, if you want to bury your face in some whores’ tits again, you’ll fucking  _move_. Pain doesn’t bother you, remember? Get the fuck up,  _get the fuck up_.” His voice grew strained, and his arms shook as he managed to sit upright. His head spun, and his stomach roiled. “You’re not weak, you’re one of the baddest motherfuckers out there! Saints don’t die this easily!” His teeth ground together and his legs trembled dangerously, but he was beginning to stand. Funny how harsh motivation can really get your blood pumping, huh? 

 _“Buen chico, solo da un paso,”_ he convinced himself quietly in Spanish. He couldn’t seem to decide if he wanted to speak Spanish or English; why not a combination of both? One small step forward was taken, and Léon’s legs almost gave out. _“Y otro, y otro._ Keep going; you’ve got friends on the outside, people to protect, a planet to avenge. C’mon, don’t you want to get laid one last time before you die? Don’t you want to shove Zinyak’s face in his own ass to show him that you’re better than him? Fucking  _survive_ , Léon! Get out of this!” 

There was no fucking way he was going to make another roof jump, and there was no way he was going to be able to use the streets. Normal people were turning into Zin; if anyone caught a good look at his beaten face, they’d know immediately that he was whom they were looking for. Nor could he hide out on this rooftop forever. Zin ships would eventually hone in on him and kill him. He was fucked no matter what way he looked at it. 

“Fuck me, I’m going to have to jump again.” Measuring the distance with his eyes, he figured that it was a shorter one than before; he had a higher chance at making it across without injury. That rooftop was also the rooftop to a pet shelter, surprisingly enough. If he had any luck on his side left, then they’d have medical supplies in there. Supplies that could very well stich Léon’s side up and give him a higher chance at surviving.

_“Fóllame en el culo el próximo miércoles.”_

Closing his eyes tightly, Léon took a steading breath and didn’t give himself a chance to think about what would happen if he misjudged and went  _splat_ upon the ground. Instead, he didn’t think as he threw himself across the gap, using the last of his dwindling powers to ensure that he did get across. He landed with a heavy  _thump_ , rolling across the hard surface. His dislocated shoulder flared with pain, and his face screwed up, teeth biting into his tongue to refrain from yelling obscenities in his native tongue, until he began to calm down enough to find the strength, and the will, to stand. 

In a shuffling gait, complete with blood dripping off of his soaked shirt, Léon forced open the rooftop door, unsure as to how he managed to get down the long flights of stairs without tripping over his own feet. It was more of a struggle to get the supply room door open, but once he did, he thanked whatever God there was above that there was in fact medical supplies that he could use.

Stitching up the gaping hole on his side was a challenge, but somehow he managed it. Rather than screw his shoulder up more by attempting to stitch the second one on his back, he patched it instead, knowing that someone was going to have to get to it later lest he wished to bleed out. His second challenge was shoving his dislocated shoulder back into place, which  _definitely_ hurt like a bitch, but somehow he managed without passing out. His shirt was torn to hell and unwearable again, so he opted for a white wife beater tank that just happened to be lying around, aware that it was making him more vulnerable to injury. Something bad was happening to the Saints control on the simulation, and he didn’t know how they were going to fix it. For now, he was going to have to survive until Kinzie and Matt regained control over their domain. 

It was unfortunate that Zinyak booted their control whilst he was in a Zin controlled area. If he had been in a Saint controlled area, he would have had a better chance at surviving without deadly injury. But luck was fickle for him today, and he was suffering because of it. Too bad. This simulation was beginning to seem like a second home to him, but now all he fucking wanted was  _out_.

“Kinzie, Matt . . . hurry up. I don’t know how much longer I can survive this shit.” 

He spent ten more minutes inside, mostly searching for any weapon that could possibly aid him against the Zin. All he found was a pistol with limited ammo, and though it was measly compared to the guns he was used to, he was in no position to complain. Storing it in his waistband and making sure that the safety was on, Léon made his up mind and went outside onto the sidewalk, finding that he felt significantly more sure of himself and stronger now that the bleeding was patched up. 

Oh, he knew he was a mess. There were bruises everywhere, and one of his eyes was swollen to the point of where he could hardly see out of it, and he had small scrapes and cuts all over his arms and his face, but at this point why should he complain? The goddamn hole in his side was mostly patched up and his bleeding was temporarily staunched. He had done what he was good at; bought himself some time. 

Angling his head down so no one could get a good look at him and pull a fucking Matrix move and shift into Zin out of nowhere, Léon quickened his pace to a Saints cache that he had forgotten was in this area. Kinzie had placed it in case any of them were stranded and needed some otherworldly aid, and Léon was full well going to take advantage of it. His odds at survival were beginning to increase and right now he could find nothing to complain about. Things were going the right way for once. He was buzzing to get his hands on a dubstep gun again, though he wasn’t going to hold his breath.

A sudden Earth trembling footstep made Léon stop in his tracks, albeit. Fearing that Zinyak had found a way to make a Lady Liberty sized monster to track him down and squeeze him to death, the Boss froze in the streets, looking in the direction that the noise and tremors had come from. Ready to start booking it to the cache, he found that he didn’t need to, for the fucking head that was beginning to rise over the crest of the hill was one all too familiar to him.

“Paul!” Léon cried, throwing his arms out and ignoring the computerized people in the simulation as they ran away. “Buddy, hey! Come here and pick me up!” All hope was not lost after all. This had to be something Kinzie and Matt dreamed up. _“¡No puedo creer que estés aquí, Paul, te amo!”_

As if the Saints Flow monster could understand him, he lumbered towards Léon, making the ground tremble with each massive step. When he was close enough he extended a hand, and Léon scrambled up into his palm. Paul, taking Léon’s size into consideration, slowly rose him up so he could sit comfortably on Paul’s top. They were attracting Zin attention again, but Paul was more than able to take them on without Léon’s help.

 _“— and his stupid . . . oh. It finally went through, did it Léon? Hahaha, ignore whatever you just heard.”_ Matt’s voice came out of nowhere, nearly startling the Boss.

 _“Oye carajo_ , did you guys get control back?” Léon wrapped his hands around the lip of Paul’s can head, being careful to keep himself in place. _“¿Estamos todos bien?”_

 _“We’re slowly beginning to take back control of the simulation. Zinyak is furious; he’s trying to fight us but we’ve got such a lockdown on what was going on now that he can’t match us. Hold on to Paul and we’ll get you out of there soon enough. It’s going to take time to bring things back to the way they were before.”_ Kinzie sounded distracted and distant. Léon did not like that.

 _“¿Son idiotas dejándome aquí? ¿Voy a morir por ti tontos?_ I can’t stay in here any longer. If I do, _mi amigo_ here might launch me into the fucking sun!” Idiots. Fucking idiots. 

 _“You’ve done well for yourself so far,”_ Matt observed. Léon could hear typing in the background.  _“Hold on another moment. Disconnecting the HUB so we can get a better read of your vitals again.”_

The line went silent again. Internally, Léon groaned. it was going to be a long fucking night.


	3. a mi hermano, una disculpa.

The rage that filled Léon was monumental and ice cold.

Fingerless glove-clad hands were tight upon the steering wheel, knuckles turning white from the pressure. He couldn’t feel anything except for _rage_. Pure rage that he couldn’t describe as hot; it was icy and cold, filling him entirely, making him numb to outside influence.

Fucking _Maero_. How _dare_ he take a rookie such as Carlos and put him through hell? In response to the thought, his foot pressed down further upon the pedal, upper lip curling over his teeth. Taking Carlos for a ride . . .

“ _Fuck! ¡_ _Mierda, mierda, mierda!”_

Léon struck the wheel with a closed fist, yelling wordlessly. No, it wasn’t Maero that did this. It was him. It was Léon. The _Boss_ who had no fucking control over his actions and got everyone he cared about killed.

Oh, he had no doubts that this was going to lead to another unfortunate death. Another untimely killing. Because he couldn’t keep himself from acting out and taking revenge. Because he couldn’t control himself. Because he was too irrational, too quick to blow his fuse. Why did he have to do this? Why did he have to _fuck_ with Maero, and bring this down upon someone who doesn’t even deserve it?

What did he do, what did he _do_? Carlos might not even be alive at this point, and if he did find them, how did he get the truck to stop? This was a fucking mess.

Where was Gat when you needed him?

Sharp, off-green hues caught sight of one of Maero’s trucks. As it so happened to be, it was the exact truck he was looking for. It took no thought process to ram his fender against one of the back tires, his heart twisting when he saw Carlos being _dragged_ behind. The truck spun out of control momentarily. There was nothing that they could do for him now. He was a lost cause.

That didn’t stop Léon from ripping himself out of the cab of the truck, pulling his rifle off the passenger seat and stalking over to the currently stalled truck. Automatically, rage being his only guidance, he raised the gun and fired skillfully into the opposite cab; watching as a bullet caught the driver in the skull, and another caught the passenger in the shoulder.

Blood splattered the windshield. Throwing his gun to the ground, Léon hurried forth to Carlos, ignoring the resounding shot that fired off behind him. He didn’t care.

It was almost poetic as the rain began to fall, and the sky darkened, seeming to mourn the young gangster. He was still alive, by some sick deity, he was being kept alive and when he made eye contact Léon wanted to _sob_. He was a wreck, and the only thing that could save him now was one final meal. The final meal that all of them got in the end.

“I’m sorry, _niño_.” His hand reached back to the waistband of his jeans, fingers brushing against the grip of his glock.

_“Lo siento mucho.”_


	4. nuestros nombres.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> premise ; a tumblr post i saw stated that johnny's real name was ji-hoon & i'm dead i had to write a thing.

“Y’know, when I said that I wanted to paint my first home with the love of my life, _this_ wasn’t what I imagined.” Léon muttered, dragging the brush along the exposed wall, absolutely hating the aspect of cutting in. He hated painting, he hated cutting in, and he hated the cleanup. Too bad there were no fresh–faced Saints around to bully into doing it for him.

“What, me bein’ the love of your life, or paintin’ this shithole?” Johnny threw a dangerous look at him over his shoulder, and Léon rolled his eyes. Johnny, being the absolute diva that he was, hated painting _more_ than Léon did. Gat would bitch about getting it on his skin and not being able to scrub it off for days after. Then he’d bitch about getting it on his clothes, and Léon would gently remind him that he should have worn shitty clothes, and Johnny would snap back and say that he _didn’t_ have shitty clothes.

Léon set his paintbrush down and looked back at Johnny, his off–green eyes gleaming. “Both.”

 _That_ set Johnny off. The Saint slammed his brush down on the ground and whipped around to face him, and Léon quickly turned away so he wouldn’t have to face him. He could feel Johnny’s gaze burning into his back through those damned sunglasses and he had to bite back a snort, knowing that Johnny was about to have an absolute meltdown over this. 

“What, so I ain’t good enough for you?” Johnny’s voice was challenging, and Léon leaned back so he could look at his best friend, the makings of a smile toying at the corners of his lips. “Am I too much for ya’, huh? _Huh_?” Demanding. Johnny was always so demanding. If the man wasn’t with Aisha, he would have jumped Johnny’s bones ten times over already. _What_? Even if he was a gun–slinging, foul–mouthed, awful gangbanger, he did have morals. 

“You’re too much of a drama queen for my tastes, _cariño_.” Léon quipped, enjoying the offended scoff that Johnny made. “Too much of a diva.” He _loved_ riling Johnny up. Léon just couldn’t help it! He was a child at heart, and knew just how to push Johnny’s buttons to get him to snap.

“And you’re too much of a brute,” Johnny snapped back, but Léon didn’t take offense. Instead, he just grinned, knowing that it was just making Johnny angrier.

“Brute? _Niño_ , you’re really losing your cool. I know you can come up with better insults than  _that_.” The calmer he stayed, the more aggravated Johnny would become. It was his favorite pastime. Before he had almost gotten blown to smithereens, he had thoroughly enjoyed pushing Johnny to the breaking point. _After_ he proved himself as a Saint, of course. Johnny would have never let himself be bullied by the new blood.

“Stop pushin’ me,” Johnny growled, and Léon held his paint–covered hands up in surrender. “I will not hesitate to beat the fuck out of you.”

“Beat the fuck outta me?” Léon echoed. “Sure. That would be disobeying your _superior. Traición, lo es._ ”

“I was here first, so fuck off. Stop speakin’ that Spanish bullshit to me.”

“Wow, _Jonathan_ , that must really suck to be outshone by someone like _me_. _Y, no, empújalo por el culo, cariño.”_ Léon retorted, flicking some of the paint from his paintbrush in Johnny’s direction. Lavender paint sprinkled the floor, none of which landed upon Johnny to his utter disappointment.

Johnny’s gaze was hard from behind the sunglasses. Something seemed to be eating the other Saint up today, and Léon pushing his buttons certainly wasn’t helping. Did it ever help, though?

“My name isn’t _Jonathan_. Never has been.” 

“Then what _is_ your first name, _mi encantadora_?” Johnny grunted and turned away. Léon could see an embarrassed flush rise on his cheeks, and he just _knew_ that he had to find out. “Come _on_ , you know I won’t tell anyone. Or laugh. I _promise_. I always keep my promises, remember? You can trust me.”

Johnny stifled a laugh. “You’re a giggly bitch, Frenchie. You’ll laugh whether you mean to or not.”

“I’m _half_ French, dumbass. I’m mostly Hispanic, and that’s what I choose to identify with. _A la mierda los franceses._ ”

“I fucked a French girl once.” Johnny replied idly, and Léon rolled his eyes.

“Don’t change the topic. Tell me, Johnny! What is your real name?” Silence. Johnny muttered something, and Léon frowned. “What was that, Johnny? I didn’t catch that. _Tendrás que hablar más alto._ ”

“. . . _Ji–Hoon_.” 

Léon stared. He had absolutely no words. He _stared_ at Johnny and when the laughter rose in his throat, he couldn’t bite it back. He _howled_ with laughter, head thrown back and mouth wide open. His body shaking, he couldn’t afford to keep himself composed. He was gasping for air in a few short moments, clearly able to feel Johnny, or rather, _Ji–Hoon,_ glowering at him. Every time he thought he was able to calm down, he’d catch a glimpse of the other Saint and his bitchy expression, and he’d lose it all over again.

It was ten minutes of this before Léon was able to bring himself under control. His eyes were watering and his throat was sore, but he looked at Johnny with his lips pressed together and his eyes gleaming. Johnny refused to meet his gaze, instead glaring at the unfinished wall with his cheeks tinged pink. Unfortunately, Léon had broken his promise, but he didn’t give a fuck.

 _“Tu nombre es Ji-Hoon! ¿Cómo nunca me has dicho eso? Me has dado tan mala munición, amigo mío. ¿Cómo alguna vez escapaste de la escuela con un nombre así?”_ Léon was wheezing as the words came out of his mouth, unable to help himself. He couldn’t even think in English, let alone speak it. _“Ji-Hoon. . . Me encanta, y tú, tanto, estúpido.”_

“ _English_ , stupid.”

 _“Inglés, estúpido.”_ Léon mocked, nudging Johnny’s shoulder with his own. His friend was glaring at the wall, his jaw clenched as he focused on the painting task at hand. “ _Lo siento._ I’m sorry for laughing.”

Johnny didn’t look at him.

“I broke my promise,” Léon continued, “I didn’t mean to laugh at you. You caught me off guard.”

Johnny still refused to look at him. 

 _“¿Por favor perdoname?”_ Léon blinked affectionately at him, purposely pouting his lips out so that he looked more like a begging puppy.  _“_ _Te amo, así que no volveré a usar el nombre.”_ He tried, hoping that Johnny would get the gist. 

Thankfully, he did. “Use it again in my presence, or tell any other motherfucker around, and I will kill your ass so hard.” Johnny threatened, rage making his voice dark.

 _“Cuidadoso,”_ Léon cautioned. “Keep using that voice on me, and I’ll have to jump you right here and now.” He dropped a wink, more serious than he should be.

“Just go back to work.” Johnny muttered, and Léon knew he had won this round.


	5. the hate of the world.

Bleak. Empty. Numb.

Léon could not feel. He could not think. He could not breathe.

Aisha’s head lay on the floor, blood pooling slowly out of her severed neck. Her body was slumped in the chair. Shots fired out behind him, and he heard them as if he were miles away. This did not feel real. This was _not_ real.

One thought crossed his mind: Johnny needed his help. As great as this man was, he could not do it alone. Not whilst rage burned fresh within his mind and his heart, driving him to be reckless and unafraid. He was fighting to take revenge on the asshole who killed Aisha. 

_“Johnny, it’s a trap!”_

Her voice, so high pitched and scared. Cut off with the singing call of a blade _whirring_ through the air. There was a disgusting _thud_ as it met with her flesh, and then another one as her head hit the floor. She went quickly, but it was a terrible death. Aisha did not deserve to die.

His body moved without his consent. The gun was pulled from his waistband, being aimed at the nearest Ronin goon. The trigger was pulled. Once. Twice. Three times. Blood sprayed the air, splashing against the walls and falling like an acidic rain onto the floor. The Ronin had not made a sound whilst Léon had killed him. He had been silent. But his heavy body hitting the floor hadn’t.

It was like this for a while. Instinct kicking in as he fired off shots and killed Ronin after Ronin, hardly hearing their bodies falling to the floor. He could hear nothing. He could feel nothing. He did not wish to hear or feel. He wished that it was him that was dead, and not dear, _dear_ Aisha. After all that he had done for her, all the time that he spent with her, all of the bonding that he, Johnny and Aisha had done . . .

Something akin to a scream split from his lips as he crushed his foot onto a Ronin’s face, unaware of how the living man had found a place upon the floor. Had he flipped the Ronin over his shoulder? Had he placed him there with a firm punch? Léon wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he grabbed the samurai sword that the Ronin had dropped and plunged it deeply into the Ronin’s mouth. He did not hear the gush of blood, nor the tearing of flesh. Léon wasn’t even sure that he _wanted_ to. He didn’t even see flowing of blood that trailed across the floor; all he saw was Aisha’s lifeless body behind his eyes.

His off–green eyes flickered with pain as he closed them, a heavy breath leaving him. How did he even begin to pull himself together?

What caught his attention and pulled him out of his own loathing was Gat. The other Saint, driven mad by rage and grief, whirled that sword with a type of recklessness that struck worry within Léon. He watched carefully as Gat quickly gained the upper hand, but something screamed at him to call out. Call out. _Call out._

“Johnny, duck! _¡Pato!”_ Léon called out, his voice rasping with lack of strength. Johnny turned to look at him, eyes confused, just as Léon raised his gun, finger hovering over the trigger. As soon as it was pulled, the gun clicked and Gat ducked. There was nothing. No bullet, no sound, no realization. There was nothing to be sensed between the spaces here.

And then there was pain.

It all happened so quickly. So fast that if Léon wanted to do anything about it, he couldn’t have. There was no time. The split millisecond Johnny realized there was no bullet coming to his rescue, he jerked to his feet, ready for anything to come at him. Well, clearly not everything, for in the seconds that it took for him to get his guard up, there was a sword bursting from the middle of his sternum. There was such a look of genuine, unexpected surprise on his hard face, and everything went cold. 

Léon’s mouth was wide open, but he made no sound. His body wanted to move, but he couldn’t. He could do it. He could kill the remaining Ronin now. If he wanted to, he could pick up one of those swords and run them all through, powered by his rage and his grief. He could do it. He could thin their ranks and end it now. He could take revenge.

But he didn’t.

It didn’t matter anyway. The Ronin were retreating. Aisha was still in two pieces on the floor. Johnny was still bleeding out. Léon was still frozen, his mind still awfully numbed.

Everything crashed into him at once.

Léon dove to the floor in an instant, his legs giving out from underneath him. On his hands and knees he crawled, palms slipping in Johnny’s blood, entire body trembling with the aftereffects of rage, hatred and grief. He couldn’t breathe. All that mattered was the faint rise and fall of Johnny’s chest, the low gasping breath that sucked through his teeth. He fell once, bashing his jaw on the hard flooring of the Gat house and clipping his teeth into his tongue, but got back up immediately and slid to Johnny’s side. His friend was dying. Johnny Gat was dying.

“No, no, _no puedes morir._ You have to live. _¡Tienes que vivir!_ ” Bleeding. Stop the bleeding. His hands pressed flat against the gaping wound, trying to stop the tidal waves from seeping out, but there’s not much that he can do like this. The wound is on both sides; he blocks the flow of blood on one end, and it comes out the other. All he does is buy Gat time.

A hand pulls off, reaching for the cellphone he always keeps in his back pocket. Bloodied fingers barely are able to press the numbers, but he dials the emergency service, reverting back to his native tongue. _“Envía una ambulancia, por favor, se está muriendo. ¡Está sangrando!”_ He gave the address, his head spinning. _“Necesitamos ayuda. ¡Darse prisa!”_

In, out. In, out. In, out. The thought of breathing so deeply was reassuring. _Keep your head._ A flash of fear rushes down his spine as he realizes the mess here, and the mistake he made in calling an ambulance. He doesn’t regret it. Léon stills. They have to move.

 _“¡Vamonos!”_ He hisses, getting to his feet and curling his fists in Johnny’s jacket. Johnny doesn’t answer, just stares blankly at the ceiling, his usually tanned skin unusually white. Pasty white. “Hang on. Hang on. _Aférrate_.” The final word is a sob as he drags his friend, hating the wide trail of blood he left in their slow, struggled wake. Johnny was deadweight; ten times heavier than before.

When they get to the doorstep, Léon switched tactics. Instead of hauling him down the steps and across the concrete, he loops his arms underneath Johnny’s armpits, lifting as much of his friend’s upper body off the ground as he could. Léon nearly lost his balance and fell down the stairs a few times, but somehow, he kept his balance and his strength up until they got to the curb. He propped Johnny and looked away, and then realized that his friend was slumping over, unable to hold himself up.

Cursing vividly in both English, Spanish and French, Léon held Johnny up, his throat closing at the fact that his friend was dying. Johnny Gat, his best friend and the strongest man in the world, was dying. He lay motionless against Léon, staring at nothing, mouthing incoherently, and more importantly; dying. That thought wouldn’t sink into his head. Johnny Gat couldn’t die. It seemed so impossibly, so out of reach . . . and yet it was happening.

 _“Jódeme,”_ Léon growls, realizing quickly enough that the ambulance wasn’t going to make it in time. He had to take matters into his own hands. _“Vamos a dar una vuelta.”_

The car they had taken was parked down the street some ways, they had wanted to take the Ronin by surprise when they saw the open door. A Saints Row Boss could drive like a wild motherfucker to the hospital and get there way sooner than the ambulance would get here, to Aisha’s blood-soaked house. His mind made up, he grabs Johnny again and begins dragging, the muscles in his back straining and twisting.

 _“Lo siento mucho, no debería haberte distraído. Debería haberte dejado hacer lo tuyo.”_ His heart wrenches in his chest as the words are ground out. With every step he takes he fears that he’s going to lose him, that Gat will stop breathing, but he’s willing his own fading strength into his friend and praying to every God alive that Johnny is spared.

Take Lin, take Carlos, take Aisha, take his entire life away and torture him until he breaks, but don’t take Johnny. _Don’t take Johnny on top of it all_.

He must have blacked out somewhere between hauling Johnny into the car and stumbling into the emergency room. Every doctor and nurse who worked there knew who the Saints were, and what they looked like, but they did not question Léon’s snapping of orders that cracked across the mostly empty room. They did not complain when he made Johnny their top priority, nor did they question when Léon refused to leave his side, entire body trembling with shock and fear as they got him better. 

Not better. Stable. On level ground. There was a danger of infection, of his wound reopening, of internal bleeding starting, but he would be okay.

He’d live, they said.

Léon hated them for their act of brushing off the situation. Hated himself for putting Johnny in that bed. Hated the Ronin for ever stepping on their territory. Hate was a powerful thing when it consumed a weary soul.


	6. despierta.

The appeal wasn’t going well. Meaning, it wasn’t going in his favor. Not. At. All. Fucking amazing. 

That bitch with the gavel was determined to send him to the chair. If he didn’t know any better, she was biased and against him! . . . Okay, he knew that she was. She wanted him dead for all the shit he’s done over the years. The file that she had on him must have been at _least_ nine inches thick. 

His attempts to get his sentence at least _lessened_ wasn’t working. She was dead set against him, never seeming to want him to be able to see the light of day ever again. Of course, with all of the things that he had done, she kind of had reason to put him away forever. But a man needed his freedom! He wanted to be able to walk the streets, kill a man or two, visit his beautiful girlfriend, reclaim the legacy that the Saints had left . . .

Bangs and crashes from outside the court room stole his attention. Frowning, Gat craned his head to peer over his shoulder and quirked a heavy brow, wondering what the fuck was making all that racket. Even his lawyer looked unnerved and Gat could hear his breathing increase sharply. Himself, though? He was comfortable in this environment. The noise was far more familiar than the pressing silence of the court room. He didn’t like the quiet.

The door banged open suddenly, and almost, _almost_ it managed to startle him. The slab of wood collapsed on top of an officer, and a leg, clad in black skinny jeans, poked through the doorway, stomping right down upon the door. The mystery persons’ foot had a sandal on it complete with a sock, and Gat rolled his eyes. There was only one person absolutely idiotic enough to wear socks and sandals _together_. Birkenstock sandals, to be more specific. Who the _fuck_ wore Birkenstock? Certainly, not a terrifying mass-murderer / gangster boss that _almost_ killed more people than himself. Almost.

Immediately allowing it to sink in that the kid was back, _Léon_ was back and fucking awake, Gat had to resist the urge to jump for joy. As dumb and girly as it sounded, he didn’t fucking care. The asshole was awake, and he had come to rescue him! Not that he needed rescuing, not really. He could take care of himself without the kid getting involved.

Though, he did appreciate the help. 

_“¿Necesito ayuda?”_ His voice, so heaven-sent, made Johnny close his eyes from behind his sunglasses. He had no idea what the fuck came out Léon’s mouth, but he had a faint clue that it was taunting, so he decided to play his limited angle. 

“Not unless you’ve brought somethin’ for me to play with.” Gat squinted at the gun holstered on Léon’s hip. “Bring an extra?” 

_“Sí.”_ The other man pulled a second gun from the waistband of his jeans. To get to Gat, he had to walk across the door, and Gat could hear the man underneath it groaning. Léon threw the gun, and Johnny swiveled so that he could catch it with his cuffed hands. 

“Mind bein’ a dear and uncuffin’ me?” Johnny smiled sweetly at the nearest court guard. “In return, maybe I won’t kill ya’.” Oh, he was going to kill him. He just wanted his fucking wrists to be free. 

Léon was already firing off shot after shot, and the wondrous sound of people dying had long since filled the air. Gat held his arms out all the while keeping his gun tightly in his grasp, and as soon as his wrists were free and the cuffs were far away from him, a finger pulled the trigger and killed the guard behind him. 

“Bye, bitch,” Gat muttered, turning the gun upon his defense attorney next. “Go on! Run. See how far you can get.” He motioned, and at first his attorney edged away, then ran. It wasn’t Gat that killed him but Léon, with a quick and reckless shot. “Hey, where did that judge go? I need to introduce her to a nice bullet.” 

His friend winked at him and pointed towards the leftmost emergency exit. “ _Ve a por ello._ Have fun.” 

Charging after her, Gat hurried, knowing that as soon as she got into the openness of the courthouse that she’d be lost to him. She was weighed down by her robes. Oh, he was going to look forward to this, he really was. She had been making his life a living hell, and he was going to make sure she suffered for it all.  

“Please, please, don’t kill me,” the judge begged when Gat caught up to her, but he felt no guilt. Bitch. 

“Should have thought of that when you refused to reduce my sentence.” He smiled his award-winning smile. “Also should have thought of that before you tried sendin’ me to the fuckin’ chair.”

“I’ll do anything!” She tried, but Johnny was not here for it. 

He aimed at her stomach, ready to put her out of her misery. “Eat this bullet then.” Johnny shot her. Not once, not twice, but three times. And then another time just to be sure. Her blood pooled at his boots. Johnny hopped back in disgust. 

Johnny nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a chin rest against his shoulder, warm breath tickling his neck. He grunted, feeling Léon slump against him in what he could only pinpoint as exhaustion. The man probably ran all the way from the prison hospital to his court hearing. They had a lot to catch up on, but that could be done later. Léon needed rest, and Johnny needed to lay low.

_“Te extrañé.”_ Léon says. Johnny doesn’t know what that means, but he feels it. The love, the grief, the excitement of their reunion. There had always been something more between them, something that neither of them addressed. They just . . . existed like this, in the middle of being more and being not, never taking the next step.

“You couldn’t have missed me while bein’ in a fuckin’ coma.” Johnny quips idly. He might not know what Léon is saying, but he feels it, deep in his heart. He missed him too.

_“Soñé contigo.”_ He sounds as if he hasn’t really woken up yet, not truly. _“Te extrañé más que a los demás.”_ With an exhale, Léon peels away, and Johnny feels a slight ache. His friend switches back to English. “Come, we have work to do.” A hand squeezes his sore shoulder, and Johnny finds himself falling into place behind him. 

Things were going to back to normal, finally.


	7. loss.

The world felt like it didn’t exist. 

Whatever was happening in the church, with the Saints moving in and out and the whispers of what just transgressed being shared, Léon could not force himself to tune in. His eyes were locked upon his hands, staring lifelessly at the scars that adorn his fingers and his palms. He can’t think. Third Street was alive and bustling while Léon shut down, closing in upon himself and wondering just what the hell had happened. 

To sum it up, in short words, she was dead. Lin. She sacrificed herself for him. Not that they really had a choice; they only had enough time for one of them to be freed, and Lin chose him. She had been in charge of the lighter, so she had gotten to choose. Those dark eyes had looked into his as she reassured him, as she told him to kick ass and keep on rolling. He had seen the fear in her eyes, heard the uncertainty in her voice, but she had still set him free and decided that he was the one to live.

He hated her choice. He hated her. He wanted to take it back. 

But he couldn’t. Lin died. Whether she drowned, or whether she bled out, Léon didn’t know. (He did know; she drowned. The cold water had filled her lungs until she couldn’t breathe and the oxygen failed to go to her brain, and God she suffocated all by herself in the trunk of her own car.) He loved her. He wanted her back.

She was gone.

“How are you doing, kid?” Julius was standing by him, hand hovering awkwardly over Léon’s shoulder. Julius wasn’t the mushy type, never had been. But Léon was his protégé and he had to say something to him to make him feel better. He didn’t want to hear it. He wanted to be alone.

He didn’t answer.

“Come on, you have to talk about it,” Julius touched him finally. Léon flinched.

 _"¡No me toques!”_ Léon snapped out before he could help himself. _“Pon tu mano sobre mí otra vez y te dispararé.”_

Julius didn’t speak Spanish, hardly anyone in the Saints did. But anyone could get the meaning of what Léon was intending. Julius’ hand pulled away. “Okay, kid. Relax. No need to put caps in anybody’s ass just yet. Just trying to help.”

“How can you help with that?” Dex walked in to hear the last of what Julius was saying. They were talking about Léon like he wasn’t even there. He didn’t care. “Homeboy was in love with her.” 

“First loves always fade.” 

“Try telling that to Eesh and Johnny.” Dex countered. “Let him grieve, then let him get angry, and when he’s ready, he’ll help take down the Rollerz. He’ll be fine sooner or later.” 

“ _¡Cállate!”_ Léon had enough. “Do not talk about me like I am not sitting right here.” His jaw was clenched. His closed fists mimicked the movement. His gut ached with the burn of an untreated gunshot wound and the emptiness of loss. He felt as if he could not catch his breath, like he was drowning right alongside Lin, the water slowly filling his lungs until he saw spots in his field of vision and he couldn’t feel the rest of his body. “I can hear you.”

“You have any input in, then?” Julius’ voice sounded like he was rolling his eyes. Léon did not look at him. “Don’t be shy, player, I know you’re capable of speech.”

 _“Venganza._ I will kill them all myself. Singlehandedly. I want to see Sharp and Price’s heads in my hands and watch the life fade from their eyes. _Su muerte es mía.”_ He studied his hands as he spoke. They trembled, though he felt detached from them, like they weren’t his own. “Give them to me.”

Dex nudged Julius. “I told you he would come ‘round when he was ready. The kid is a force to be reckoned with.” 

Léon looked up to meet Julius’ dark and unsure gaze. His own vision was blurred with pain, but he kept himself steady, staring the man down. _“Por favor. Damelos. No voy a fallar.”_

A sharp exhale followed his words. Julius did not seem to approve of the idea, but Dex was nudging him into it. Léon had never felt so grateful for the other lieutenant before. Give him his revenge, let him do this, for he will avenge Lin and make sure it never happens again. “Fine. But if you get your scrawny ass killed in the process then I don’t want to hear about it. You take them down quiet, and you take them down fast. We’re losin’ ground to them quickly. Get it done.” 

 _“Gracias. No moriré. Ellos serán los que sufran.”_ Léon felt lighter than he had in hours, like nothing could put him back in that awful state again. Now that he had a goal, a plan of revenge . . . “And Donnie?”

“Do what you like with him.” Julius waved his hand.

“It would be good to have him on our team, so don’t kill him.” Dex intervened, and Julius shot him a look that said they did not talk about that beforehand. “Make sure he lives, kid.” 

“Sure.” Léon murmured. He was prepared to drift off into his own pity party, to mourn, but Dex touched his shoulder and gently pulled.

“C’mon, let’s get you stitched up. Then you can go ahead and be sad all on your own.” He helped pull Léon to his feet, who went unhappily. “You steady? Good.” Dex’s hand clapped his arm, and he winced. “There you go. You’ll be back to murdering other bangers in no time.”

* * *

It was a fitful night’s sleep, figuring how the only painkillers they had on hand were drugs they snagged from dead bodies, other gangs, and shit they’ve bought from trusted suppliers. After being stitched up and drugged up, Léon drank himself to sleep and dreamed. He dreamed of Lin. Not to anyone’s surprise, let alone his, her death was far too fresh still.

“Hey, wake up,” someone was shaking his shoulder. Léon grunted and ignored them. “Jackass, _wake the fuck up_. Julius wants t’ see you.” 

At that, Léon woke to see an annoyed Johnny standing beside him. He felt groggy. “Fine, _multa, Jesucristo._ I’m up.” He pushed Johnny off and sat up. “What does he want?”

“D’ya think he told me? No. Go listen for yourself.” Johnny looked away from him. The other Saint didn’t like him too much, Léon figured it was because he was fresh blood. Unproven. Eventually they would get there. Or, he hoped they would. 

Ignoring Johnny’s petty sulking, which happened quite often, Léon wound his way through the pews until he could make his way to Julius’ office. He invited himself to sit in front of his desk without Julius saying anything, waiting expectantly with a quirked brow. 

“You look like shit.” Julius started, lacking tact as usual.

“As do you.” Léon countered, absolutely in no mood for due respect and all that bullshit. “What do you want?” 

Julius, for once in his life, looked uncomfortable. Léon wondered if it should make _him_ feel uncomfortable, but exhaustion and grief dulled his ability to read social cues correctly. “They found Lin’s body in the lake this morning,” the deep baritone of his voice was so low that Léon had to strain to hear him correctly. “Found her car, too. The Saints can’t claim her as their own, and even though she was wearing Rollerz clothing, they didn’t claim her either–”

“Stop.” He cut Julius off. “I–I don’t want to hear that shit. Don’t do that to me.” His voice broke, and he fucking prayed Julius would ignore it.

But Julius was watching him like a hawk, seeing everything that Léon didn’t want him to see. “How did you even manage to fall in love with her?” He asked, not gently. There was more curiosity in his voice than anything. “You never worked much with her.” 

His stomach flipped as Julius asked. Lin had asked for his help – off the charts – several times, and then they had started meeting more regularly and risking exposure. There was no harm in telling Julius about it now; Lin was dead, Léon out of commission for a hot second thanks to being shot. If he got pissed, then that was his problem. What happened had happened, and there was no turning back the clock to undo it. Even though Léon wanted nothing more than that exact thing.

He explained, quickly, how he and Lin had somehow forged a relationship without dating, and he even shed some light on the inner turmoil that was ripping him apart as slowly as possible. Julius said not one word, his eyes flat and expressionless, hands folded and propping up his chin as he listened. The silence that followed his words made Léon want to do anything to break it, but he willingly stayed silent, daring Julius to say something.

Finally, what Julius said was, “I can’t believe I didn’t see it. Regardless, I wanted to tell you about what happened this morning before you heard it through chatter.” He waved a hand aimlessly. 

“Why, so you could see me fall apart at your desk and weep? That’s cruel, even for you.” 

“No. So you could prepare yourself for the shitshow that’s coming. I’m rather glad you’ve pulled yourself together. That grieving act you had on yesterday is not something I want to see from you again. That was nothing like you at all.” Julius was frowning at him. Léon didn’t like the disapproving tone in his voice. “If you want to take down the Rollerz, you have to be better than them. Be. Better. Not whatever the fuck you were yesterday.”

Léon had several choice words he would have liked to say to Julius, but he kept his mouth shut. The muscles in his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth. He offered Julius a strained smile as he stood up, ready to leave. 

“And Léon?” He turned to look at Julius, lips flat. Julius had not one ounce of expression on his face. “Don’t pull that shit again with anyone else.”


	8. hermano.

“ _Perdón_ , is there a Léon Anders here? I must speak to him.” Ah, the very words that had started this entire mess.

Johnny had turned to face the one addressing him, eyes instinctively narrowing behind his glasses. There had been a boy standing before him, very clearly between the ages of fifteen and eighteen, with beautiful green eyes and dark, tousled hair. Much like another guy Johnny knew all too well. The slopes of their jaws were alike, as were the gentle curves of their noses; even their lips were the same. Looks gotten from their mother, Johnny had guessed. 

“Who the hell are you?” Johnny had demanded, lacking his usual tact. Strangers weren’t welcome here anymore.

“ _Diego_. Diego García.” In the moment, he had doubted that Diego’s first language was English, mostly by the obnoxious accent the boy had. It was the same one that Léon had grown out of all those years ago. “I’m his brother.” 

And that’s how they got _here_.

Here was a nice, uncomfortable place known as Léon’s office, standing awkwardly off to the side while Diego and Léon had a shouting match. They weren’t even speaking English, so it wasn’t like Johnny could understand whatever they were bickering about. It must be bad; Léon’s face was red and he kept slamming his hands down on his desk, almost like he was imagining hitting Diego. Johnny didn’t blame him in the slightest. He, too, would love to mess up that boy’s pretty face. 

The best part of it, though, was that he wasn’t alone; Shaundi was right next to him, picking idly under her nails, her lips pursed and her gaze averted to the floor. She was high, very high, but Johnny was reveling in the fact that he wasn’t suffering all by his lonesome.

“Speak Spanish?” Johnny asked her. When she shook her head, he heaved a dramatic sigh. “Me neither, wish I knew what they were sayin’.”

Diego, who was beginning to get just as red in the face as Léon, raised his voice to be heard over his brother. Johnny’s brows quirked. 

“Are they fightin’ over a girl? Family? Money?” Johnny gave a slow, methodical shrug. He didn’t know any better than Shaundi did, but he was going to go nuts if he just stood still and quiet for much longer. Better to run his mouth than to listen to nonsense. “Maybe it’ll get violent and we’ll get a real show.”

_“¡Cállate!_ ” Both brothers whipped around to stare at Johnny, identical green eyes burning with rage. Diego’s eyes were glistening with tears – oh no, that’s not good – while Léon looked like he would shoot Johnny for less than a penny. A quarter of a penny. Not even a quarter, less than that. A fifth of a penny. The look would have been considered hot if not for the circumstances. Maybe he would have even joked about it to Léon’s face if he felt safe enough to do so, but he didn’t. You couldn’t have _paid_ him to joke about anything in this very moment. 

“ _Sabes que a mamá le importas_.” Diego’s voice was pleading, yet so heavy with intention. “ _A ella no le importa lo que sucedió con pa y Los Carnales, tú eres hijo de mamá; ¡ella te ama!_ ” 

“ _Maté a su marido, Diego. Maté a tu padre. A ella no le importa. Realmente eres estúpido si crees lo contrario. Es hora de que te vayas.”_ Léon moved from around the desk, placing his hands upon Diego’s shoulders firmly. 

“ _Espera, Léon, por favor –_ ” Diego tried to beg, but Léon snapped at him to be quiet, and the boy listened for once. Johnny had never seen such a kid look so downcast before.

“If you see him on Saints territory again,” Léon’s voice was tight with rage as he stopped next to Johnny, “do not hesitate to shoot him. _Un chico estupido_.” Léon’s eyes were ringed with red, and when he spoke, his voice sounded so exhausted that it even drew a concerned expression from Shaundi.

“With pleasure,” Johnny muttered, shooting Diego a dark look. Diego returned it. “What do you want done with him, Boss?” 

“Walk him out, _por favor_. I need . . . I need some time to myself.” Léon leaned around Diego to throw the office door open, giving his brother a gentle shove. “Go. I will hear no more of _any_ of this, Diego. My threats are not taken lightly. Do not return to this place, or Johnny here, who is _very_ trigger-happy, will shoot you.”

Johnny flashed the kid one of his best smiles that showed all of his teeth, making sure to put as much threatening energy into the simple motion as he dared. “I really do like t’ shoot little boys,” he whispered, though he wasn’t surprised when Diego’s expression didn’t change in the slightest. The kid would have made a fine gangster if he had chosen the life. 

“Boss,” Shaundi was saying, “do you want me to –”

“ _No_ , Shaundi. I need some goddamned time to myself. Now, get the hell out of my office so I can  _think_.” Léon ushered the three of them out and slammed the door shut in their faces. Shaundi looked crestfallen at being snapped at and cut off, but Johnny took no personal offense. Léon was going to be in one of his moods for a while, he was betting. 

“C’mon, kid, let’s go.” Johnny nudged Diego’s shoulder to get him walking, dutifully ignoring the angry look Diego shot him. “Let’s get moving before your brother comes out ‘n decides to shoot you himself.”

Diego walked in front of him sullenly, shoulders pulled in and head down. His hands were shoved in his pockets, and he was just the epitome of dejection. Johnny wanted to laugh, but he didn’t want to hurt the kid. Not yet, at least.

“Can you tell him something for me, _por favor_?” Diego whipped around looked at Johnny, his green eyes burning. Johnny was almost taken aback. “Our _mamá_ does love him. No matter what.” The tone of his voice was intense.

“Sure, whatever, kid.” Johnny said just to get him to shut the fuck up. He liked to think that he knew a little something about Léon, and speaking about his parents would certainly upset him. “I’ll let him know.”

Diego must have seen right through him – damn these fucking kids – because he frowned. “I’ll see myself out then, thanks.” He muttered and stalked down the hall before Johnny could stop him. He was gone within a moment, and Johnny watched him go, wondering how it was that he got so tangled up in the Boss’s personal life.


End file.
